Harry Potter and the Spirits of the Storm
by QueenHal
Summary: When Harry’s quest for answers turns desperate, he leaves the security of his homeland to seek out the advice of an ancient and most unusual Council, one whose goals may be very different than his own. A different sort of Book 7...
1. Prologue: A Horse and His Boy

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_Disclaimer: Swimming in JKR's ocean, not mine. I just like looking at her pretty fishies._

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**1: PROLOGUE  
A Horse and His Boy**

The night's air was fierce and cold, and wrought with a heaviness that forced the Thestral to pump its dark wings with an extra ferocity. Its ebony coat was glazed in sweat, despite the frigidity of the weather. At first glance the creature gave off the impression of the victim of a horse-dragon breeding that had gone terribly wrong. For while its body was clearly that of a horse, its wings were huge and bat-like, not unlike those of a dragon. Its head too, was built along the same lines of a dragon, with pupiless eyes that stared blankly into the gloom ahead.

Upon the creature's back was a rider who was nearly as curious as the steed he so relentlessly drove onwards. He was a young man of seventeen, although from the looks of him, he could have easily been mistaken as much older. The boy's hair and robes were as dark as his Thestral's mane; his skin, so drained from lack of sleep and prolonged exposure to the cold, was as pale as death. The only spark of color between horse and rider at all was the pair of emerald eyes the boy hid behind round-rimmed glasses. They were so like his mother's, so many people had often told him. That was before. Now, if someone had happened to pass them on this brutal autumn evening and look into the boy's eyes, they would see only a defiant hardness. It wasn't a look that became a boy so young.

But this was not just any boy. He was quite famous among the witches and wizards of his time. _This_ was the Boy-who-lived. _This_ was the Chosen One – the one who was destined to either save the wizarding world from the wickedness that was Lord Voldemort, or die trying.

Lord Voldemort was precisely the reason he was flying so hard tonight. If he were to be caught out in the open by any of his enemy's followers, there was no sure way he could survive. His best chance was to fly the creature long and hard, without stopping for any reason but to water his steed and quickly stretch his stiffened legs. They had only stopped twice, and it had been a flight of two days. The dark-haired boy felt for his horse, which he had appropriately named Falcor, but he knew also that speed and secrecy were the differences between survival and death.

The boy – Harry Potter was his name - rubbed the sides of Falcor's neck in a silent thank you. The horse threw up its head slightly in response.

"You're making brilliant time, boy," he told the horse, though he wasn't entirely sure of its sex. The Thestral didn't complain, so Harry assumed that he was indeed a male. "Let me find out how close we are."

Making sure his thighs tightly gripped the sides of the Thestral, he released its neck and drew out his wand. Harry cast the four-point spell, which let him know of their direction, and another spell Hermione had taught him, that let him know of the distance still between him and his destination. The first semblance of a smile in days shone upon Harry's face.

"We're close, Falcor," Harry murmured. "It shouldn't be long now."

Just then, a flash of lightning lit up the night sky and the booming of thunder followed soon after. Harry swore. He was in no mood to get wet, but they would have to stay below the clouds in order to see where they were. Another flash of lightning split the heavens, much closer this time. Falcor reared in the midst of the sky, which was a slightly terrifying experience. Harry lent him all the soothing words he could, trying to block out his own fear. The Thestral would be able to tell if his rider was scared.

When the next lightning strike hit, it very nearly singed Falcor's tail, and Harry felt his already wild hair stand on end. He knew they were direct targets, up here in the storm. He didn't like descending so soon, but he knew there wasn't a choice. Where as there was some protection in the forested mountains of below, there was nothing up here in the air to keep them from being singed alive. Harry leaned forward and twined his stallion's mane around his fingers.

"OK boy," he yelled against a wave of rain, "land wherever you think is best. We'll go on foot from here."

The Thestral seemed very pleased by this and by the time the next bolt of lightning cracked the night, both Horse and his Boy were safe on the ground.

"Just keep going northeast from here."

Falcor made it clear he did not need Harry's instructions, as he had clearly caught the scent. He pranced ahead excitedly. If this weren't such a grave occasion, Harry might have thought the sight rather amusing.

On foot, they were a lot slower than the air, but Falcor was able to rest his great wings, and there was some protection from the downpour thanks to the many trees. For several miles they traveled, Harry constantly aware of the rain beating on his back. He longed to be warm, well fed, and clean shaved again.

_Perhaps those luxuries would still not be available to me,_ he reminded himself. _After all, I'm not exactly welcome where I'm going as it is._

Falcor and Harry topped a rise sometime later, and they were greeted by the sight of a foreboding looking fortress in the valley below them. Many sensations streamed through Harry as he gazed at what they had come so far to find. Finally, he set his mouth in a firm line and nudged his steed down into the valley. What would come would come.

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A/N: Cookie for anyone who can tell me what "Falcor" is from :)  



	2. Chapter 2: Of Labyrinths and Destiny

_Disclaimer: Just keep swimming, just keep swimming... (JKR's fishies, not mine.)_

A/N: Thank you to HBP for Betaing this chapter.

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**:CHAPTER 2:**  
Of Labyrinths and Destiny 

A twisting of the doorknob aroused Harry from his trance-like stupor. He realized he must have fallen asleep at some point, though he had no idea just how long he had been indisposed. Time itself had vanished in this windowless waiting room. With eyes burning from exhaustion, he watched as the door opened, a willowy figure revealed in its wake. All thoughts of tiredness disappeared as he registered that this could be the one that would lead him to his destination. The figure stepped forward, and the light swept over her body, revealing her as a woman with long, flowing limbs and graceful curves. As her face came into view, he was surprised to see that her features provided a stark contrast to the rest of her. They were sharp and strong - too finely chiseled to be beautiful, but alluring all the same.

The witch glanced around the dim, bare chamber that served as a waiting room. When her eyes met his, he gazed stonily back. She broke contact first, though he could feel her piercing glare taking in his wan appearance, shaggy hair, and the rough stubble upon his jaw line. He was increasingly aware of his questionable looks. Without thinking, he reached to flatten his hair on the back of his head.

"Harry Potter?" she said, in a tone as calculating as her gaze.

He nodded once in affirmation and stood, unnerved even more by her silent appraisal. He had met terrifying creatures in his days, but there was something about this woman that was just as intimidating as any of them. The witch's mouth twitched into a frown and then she turned, her pale robes sweeping around her limbs. She fluttered a fair-skinned hand behind her – a gesture for him to follow, he assumed – and after stealing himself, he stepped after her, uncertain of what lay behind the door.

They were in another chamber, roughly the same size as the first, but of a completely different nature. It pulsed with an odd green light, which seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Harry glanced toward the ceiling, and his eyes widened in awe. There was not a ceiling at all, but a tapestry of woven vines. He recognized this as the source of the green glow. As he gazed at the strange tapestry longer, Harry realized the weaving depicted a scene of some sort, and squinted, trying to make it out. A tapping of a foot startled him from his daze, and he tore his eyes from the wondrous display to find the witch regarding him with interest.

"It's an ancient work," she said.

"It's beautiful." He meant it, too.

"The room chooses how it presents itself according to the guest who enters. It's… interesting it chose this form for you."

"Why?" Harry was used to things being "interesting" for him. After years of such happenings, he had learned that it was best to find out all he could about them. "Is it important?"

There was a pregnant pause, and the witch was clearly trying to decide how much to tell this male stranger. His curiosity almost led him to press her, but one look at those sharp cheekbones convinced him to do otherwise.

"Long ago," she began in an expressionless voice, "a sorceress came to us; one whose botanical skills ascended all others. She created this tapestry from living vines, vines which live and grow still today." Even as Harry watched, they twisted and weaved within themselves. It gave the impression that the characters in the tapestry were actually moving. It was a surreal, almost dizzying movement, though, and quite unlike the wizarding paintings he was used to.

"It is widely agreed that the tapestry is beautiful," she continued, "but not many can see the picture depicted in its weavings. From the look upon your face, it does not seem that this is the case for you."

He nodded, noting how in one part of the tapestry the different combinations of vines and leaves created the ranks of many mystical creatures intertwined in battle. There also looked to be humans fighting in their midst. Strangely so, there was something vaguely familiar about a few of them. As he stared at them, he felt strength and courage flowing back into him. The energy seemed to be flowing from one character in particular, made up of a complex weaving of leaves and pale vines. He thought it was a man, but he couldn't be sure. He smiled briefly and the leave-cloaked character pulsed in response.

As his neck began to ache from the position it had taken, his eyes fell onto yet another part of the tapestry. Thousands of symbols were set in different intricate patterns. He stood on his tiptoes to look closer, but his investigation was cut short by the witch clearing her throat.

"We should be moving on."

"Is it like this room?" He pressed, not seeming to hear her. "Does it show a different scene for everyone?" He had this nagging feeling that there was something very important about that tapestry that he should know.

"Not exactly," she said with a tone of finality.

"Is it –"

"There is a reason you came to us this day, is there not?" Her voice had reached a level shrill enough to rival Hermione's.

"Of course," he gulped. Harry Potter knew better than to argue with that tone, though he knew without a doubt that he would eventually have to return to the tapestry.

"Then we shall proceed." The witch tapped her wand against the wall, which was not really wall at all but branchless trees pushed together very tightly. A door appeared where her wand tip had touched. He made as if to step through, but she thrust her wand up across his neck.

_Well that's polite,_ he thought, annoyed. _A simple 'stop' would have worked quite well. _

"From this point, until we reach our destination," she told him in a once-again calm voice, though it held a note of daring, "do not speak. Do not make any sound. If you could refrain from letting your feet fall too loudly as well, please do so." He stared at her.

"Understood?"

Harry merely nodded, not taking the dare. She lowered her wand.

"And do keep up; it is wise to always keep moving within these halls."

She bustled through the doorway, Harry just behind her. Wary of her words, he kept at her heels as she proceeded briskly down a twisting, narrow, but very tall passageway. In fact, he noticed that it seemed to have no ceiling at all. The stone walls just extended upwards for what seemed like forever. It made him feel very small and rather dizzy, so he looked forward instead.

The passageway did not seem to end in that direction either. They traveled up and down stairwells, went around sharp corners, and followed bends that were so rounded he felt they would never finish circling. They met several intersections, and always turned down a different direction than the last. He was under the impression that a couple of times they retraced their footsteps, though there were no distinct landmarks so he could not be sure. They never met any others. They never slowed their pace.

They traveled this way for some time, and the silence that bore down on him was velvety and oppressive. It was unnerving. Harry wondered briefly if this was one of the tests he had been warned of, but dismissed the thought as readily as it popped into his head. Whatever lay at the end of this labyrinth was what truly mattered. He went over his plan in his head, vividly remembering Hermione's cautionary tales. The real test was still to come. Thinking of what lay ahead only ended up aiding his piquing nerves, so Harry put that out of his mind too and instead studied the witch who led him so fiercely.

Her chestnut hair was drawn into coils that wrapped around the back of her head. As his eyes tried to sort out where the coils ended and began, he found himself thinking of the tapestry. It had been so intricate, so powerful. When Harry tried to fixate his mind on its details though, he felt as if he had been hurled into a giant storm of oblivion. He couldn't remember a blasted thing! It was an unnatural feeling to not remember what he had seen so vividly; even in the magical world. More than ever, he wanted to return and study it. Perhaps when this was all over, they would allow him to do so. He could not rid himself of the feeling that it carried something of great importance in its living threads.

For the remainder of the journey, Harry fixated his thoughts on the witch's robes. They were a pale cream color and billowed as she walked, reminding him of ship's sails. Even from a few paces back he could tell they were of the finest quality wizard gold could buy. He had not seen a crest on the front of the robe, but as he looked now he saw a marking over her right shoulder blade: a deadly looking curved sword and a just as deadly looking claw crossed over a wand. It was nothing like Harry had seen before, but this did not surprise him in the least; everything here was unusual in some way or another.

He pondered what it meant, though. He pondered what it _all_ meant.

At last, their pace slowed and they paused at a door that was nondescript in all but its keyhole. The object in question was in the shape of a charging she-griffin, set in a bronze plate. Harry's silent guide motioned for him to step back. After he had given her a wide enough girth, she raised her wand and murmured an inaudible spell. From her wand, came the whispery shape of a Unicorn. Harry watched, fascinated despite himself, as the patronus-like Unicorn melded itself horn-first into the bronze of the plate and knelt in submission in front of the griffin. The griffin nodded its head, and the door opened in a soft click.

"So," a musical voice said as Harry stepped through the threshold, "Harry Potter has come to us at last."

Harry's eyes took in the chamber as he entered, and was confronted with such exquisiteness that he felt his apprehension dissipating into awe. As his gaze fell upon the speaker, though, the room seemed to fade away into nothingness. Again, he became quite aware of his thumping heart. He knelt, but bowed his head only slightly as to keep his eyes trained on the being before him.

"Tell us, male-child," she said in the same hypnotic voice that had greeted him, "what brings you so far from the place you call home?"

"You know perfectly well why I'm here," Harry replied, maintaining a certain level of respect in his voice, despite his words. It was incredibly important that he did not show weakness. "I seek your help."

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A/N: This chapter has gone through 1563634 revisions since I first wrote it, and I'm proud of this final version. To think that the story I have planned for you all stemmed from the first paragraph of this chapter... giggles madly 

Ooo, so I'm having tremendous fun! I hope you all are as well.

Special thanks to Fantasium and Aequitas for their especially wonderful and helpful reviews.

Also, I have a new batch of freshly baked cookies. To anyone who can guess correctly who made the tapestry gets one. :)


	3. Chapter 3: A Legacy Unknown

**Harry Potter and the Spirits of the Storm**

_Disclaimer: Although many aspects of this chapter are original, it is still JKR's sea that I'm swimming in._

**Thank you to Aequitas for her wonderful Betaing. She deserves lots of hugs and cookies.**

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**:CHAPTER 3:**  
A Legacy Unknown

The grounds of Salem Witches' Institute were awash in the magnificent colors of autumn. The breeze carried its crackling parcels to and fro, leaving them in lumpy and damp piles on the Institute's otherwise perfectly groomed lawn. From her perch at the window-seat in the Headmistress' Tea Room, a young woman with smoldering eyes and curling brown locks watched it all with wonder. She wished very much that she were young again, and out there jumping around in the piles of leaves, breathing in the season's fragrant, earthy scents. Instead, she was in here, trying very hard to be pretty and proper, and occasionally looking up to greet the parents of a classmate.

Not that any of her classmates actually cared if Lanette Little met their parents. Not for the right reasons anyway. They might say, "Oh, Lanette is the great granddaughter of the Institute's founder." Lanette would flash the awed parents a gracious smile and say, "Well, actually, it's great, great, great, great, great-granddaughter, but thank you." She would then turn her head back to the window and stare distantly, keeping her ears perked for their comments. "She's an odd child," the parents would say as they walked away. "Oh yes," a classmate might whisper back, "She's always by herself. I think she likes it that way." The last sentence would be said in a way that made Lanette's love of solitude almost taboo.

Lanette did not think it was that strange that she liked to be alone. Things were much easier when you only had to look after yourself, instead of worrying constantly about what the other Sixth Form girls' opinions were (though sometimes these said opinions were so absurd they were amusing). This was why she never let on that she knew much more than everyone thought. Last year, when she and her classmates had taken the O's (Ordinary Wizarding Levels), Lanette had surprised everyone but her teachers when she received perfect scores.

"But she never raised her hand once in class," a classmate would exclaim. The others would nod their heads and add their whining insults to the discussion as if criticizing their least-favorite performer on the WWN.

Lanette would keep her head bent over a book as she listened to their protests. They could talk about her as if she was deaf, but it didn't mean she was. Lanette found herself hardly bothered by their harsh words, though. She was merely amused at how much they cared about her all of a sudden.

"She probably slept with the examiner or something," another girl might venture, conveniently forgetting that she herself had tried that and it hadn't worked.

It had been quite entertaining to watch them try to figure her out. When they finally gave up and turned their attentions to some other mundane subject, Lanette would go back to being the uninteresting, odd girl, who always either had her head in the clouds, or in a book. Lanette had no objections. She knew she was different, and at one point in her life, she might have cared. Now however, she was done trying to fit in.

The only reason Lanette was actually trying to be gracious on this crisp, lovely autumn afternoon, was because somewhere in this stuffy old room might be her grandmother; and of all people in Lanette's small orbit of existence, Grandmother was the one person she actually valued the opinion of.

"Lanette!" shrieked a voice over the crowd in the drawing room.

"Hello Mother," Lanette said, and rose to stand on her tiptoes and kiss her mother on both cheeks. Mrs. Vera Arvolon Little was a tall woman, and rather buxom. In fact, her surname was rather unfitting for a witch of her stature. Mrs. Little had beady dark eyes, pointy ears and a sharp nose. Her hair, which originally had been a very dark brown, was now a rather unflattering shade of blonde. Lanette suspected her mother had been experimenting with coloring potions again. Thankfully, Lanette thought, she had received most of her looks from her father's side of the family. The only thing Lanette had inherited from the Arvolon side was her chin, which was pointy, like everything else on her mother's face.

"Darling," Mrs. Little said in her most flamboyant tone, "it has just been a nightmare trying to find you in this place." Mrs. Little waved her arms wildly as if her daughter did not understand the English language. Lanette smirked at this thought, realizing she probably knew far more of it than her mother did.

"I was sitting over by the window," Lanette told her mother simply. She was not about to explain the need to get away from all the gossiping students and parents alike; her mother lived for that sort of thing.

"Of course you were," Mrs. Little said with a frown. "You know, you really should mingle more. People might get the wrong idea about you, darling. You know," she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper, "they might think you're some kind of recluse. You know—"

Lanette almost laughed. "No, I don't _know_, Mother. What I _do_ know, is that I could be doing much more useful things with my time than acting prim and well-bred in order to impress the high-society pureblood parents of girls I don't even associate with." Mrs. Little looked horrified. After all, Mrs. Little was a high-society pureblood parent.

"Stop badgering your mother, Lanette," a cool, calming voice said from behind her. "She's only trying to look out for you." Lanette's eyes widened in glee.

"Grandmother!" she gasped, and turned around, truly happy for the first time that evening. She calmed herself for a minute to kiss her favorite relative on the cheek and then threw her arms around Grandmother in a hug. "You're here!"

Grandmother, who also happened to be named Lanette Little, was the mother of Mr. Little. She was a witch in her eighties who looked as if she had once been a model of Witch Weekly America. Even now, she was the vision of beauty, with lovely silvery hair she kept piled on top of her head, and finely sculpted features alight with glow. Her eyes, though wilted with age, held a spark of fire.

"Of course I am here, dearest," said the spritely older witch. She drew back from Lanette's firm hug and held the girl's shoulders, her gaze pouring into her granddaughter's soul. "I did not forget that it is your birthday today."

Lanette's blue eyes burned with happiness. With the arrival of the Upper School's Parents' Weekend, nobody had noticed that the quiet Lanette Little's birthday fell on the day of the Headmistress' tea. True, it was not as if Lanette went around announcing the fact to whoever would listen, but a girl only turned seventeen (and legal) once.

"Oh, Lanette," her mother exclaimed, "of course – your birthday!"

_Trust my own mother to forget,_ Lanette sighed inwardly. "I'm sure it only slipped your mind, Mother," Lanette said with just enough sarcasm that Mrs. Little's face flushed. "I'm sure you had this long speech planned out about how your only daughter turns seventeen only once and about what an important day it is for her." The blush deepened.

"Of course," Mrs. Little said meekly. "Happy birthday, darling."

The elder Lanette Little watched her granddaughter with an wrinkled smile. She was a bright girl, much too bright for the people she associated herself with. Or didn't associate with, depending how one looked at it. She had been an adult witch long before today, and though custom dictated many things, wished that she could have told her namesake sooner of her legacy.

"Vera, look, there are the Canteburys," Grandmother told her daughter-in-law, "and I know you've been dying to tell them of your recent discoveries in Doxy-displacement." The Canteburys were a prominent family in wizarding New England, and somehow distantly related to the Arvolons. They had three daughters; two in the Lower School, and one in 7th Form, a year ahead of Lanette. Mrs. Little never seemed to tire of comparing Lanette to Agnes Cantebury, who was blonde, talkative, and very popular.

"Oh!" Mrs. Little brightened instantly. "It is true, I've been meaning to talk to Stacy. The two of you wouldn't mind terribly if I went and spoke with her for just a minute?"

"Not at all, Vera."

"No, Mother. Please, go right ahead."

Delightedly, Mrs. Little disappeared into the mass of green school robes and pastel-colored ones of the parents.

"That should occupy your mother for at least a half-hour."

"You're brilliant you know," Lanette laughed.

"Yes, I do _know_, thank you," Grandmother said, mimicking her granddaughter's previous tone. She then met Lanette's eyes sharply. "Actually, there is an ulterior motive for my sending your mother off like that."

"Yes?" Lanette ventured, an excitement bubbling in her veins.

Grandmother eyed Lanette for a moment. "I'd rather speak of it away from prying ears. Would you mind gathering your cloak? Let us take a walk on the grounds."

"Okay," Lanette said, glad for any reason to get out of the Headmistress' Tea. "It will take me a few minutes to run to Bridget Bishop Hall," she said, naming the Residence Hall named after the first witch tried at the Trials of 1692. "If you would mind waiting by the Living Tree in the quad, I'll be down really quickly."

"Fine," Grandmother said with a small smile. "Shoo."

But if had Lanette had looked back, she would have seen something almost frightening in those oceanic eyes.

Lanette flew across the campus, dried leaves kicked up by the heels of her feet. She loved running. She loved the free feeling it lent to her. The only thing she loved more than running was riding. Chester, a flying-horse in the Institute stables, was her favorite mount. Like most things about her, the fact that she was an expert flier was not widely known. Before her Upper School days, Lanette and her father had often competed in the New England Volerathon – a competition where riders and their flying beasts were pitted against others in a series of difficult courses.

Then one day, her father had taken a fall. No one knew for sure how it happened. But all of a sudden, he was no longer in his saddle, and he was falling through the air, faster, and faster, and nobody had the power to slow him. With a sickening crunch, the 13-year old Lanette watched as her father's life was snuffed out in a moment of silence. It had been such a normal, sunny afternoon….

Smartly, Mr. Little's mother had put Lanette back into a saddle as soon as she could. Grandmother had said that it was important for Lanette to deal with her fear now, instead of later. So Lanette had ridden. But she would never compete again; that part of her life was behind her. Also left behind were her wishes for peer approval. They did not understand death, so how could they understand her?

When Lanette reached the ivy-clad Bishop Hall, she slowed her steps. The no-running policy in the dormitories was strictly enforced with a string of potent spells. They were quite annoying, but there was no getting around them. Her room was on the third floor, so it took her several agonizing minutes to get there.

Lanette's room was modestly sized, like most of the students' rooms, but because it was the corner room, it featured a wonderful window that looked out towards the cove. Lanette loved this window. At night, when most were asleep, Lanette would look out through that window and spot the lighthouse, throwing its light off into the depths of the night.

From her dresser, Lanette pulled her favorite cloak – a sapphire blue one that was long and flowing. Usually, the girls were required to wear the forest green cloaks that were issued by the school to match their uniforms of green and white plaid. Today though, she felt a little rebellious. After all, it was her birthday.

When Lanette met her grandmother at the Tree, the cloak's ruffled hood was pulled over her brown curls and accented her eyes of the same color. Its body covered her thin, bony shoulders and fell to the ground around her legs, hiding how skinny they were. It created a mysterious effect that Lanette loved, though she wouldn't admit it.

"You look lovely, dearest," Grandmother told her warmly. "I was right when I gave you that cloak."

"It's a shame I never get to wear it, really," Lanette spoke as they began to venture across the grounds. "The Elders are awfully strict about the dress code.

Grandmother was wearing a stunning cloak of her own in a shiny bronze. It might have seemed too young for a witch of her years to wear, but Grandmother, who looked stunning in anything, was nothing short of radiant. They made quite a pair on that lovely fall afternoon. If one had happened to glance out Lanette's window in the Headmistress' Tea Room, they might have wondered at the bronze and blue pair who walked with such radiance across the courtyard below.

"Lanette," Grandmother said as the path they were following turned abruptly out of the main school and into a seldom-visited part of the Institute's grounds, "what do you know of our family's history?"

"I know that the Little family was prominent in forming wizarding New England," she said after a moment. This part of the school seemed desolate and foreign to her. No one ventured here unless it was on a dare. The buildings were crumbling and hollow, and held the sad stories of many souls that had once passed through their doors. These buildings were said to be haunted, and the ghosts of Salem witches weren't known for their kindness. Lanette shrugged off the chill that she felt seeping at her bones and concentrated on what her grandmother was saying.

"What else?" urged Grandmother, "What do you know about the women in our family?"

"Well, my mother is a self-absorbed socialite who— "

"Not your mother's side. _Our_ side." Grandmother said this in a way that made Lanette look at her. She knew she carried many of her grandmother's traits. She would never be as beautiful, or as wise, or as cunning, but she did have her eyes, and her smile, and her wit. Lanette liked to think that someday, she would be exactly like her grandmother.

"Well," Lanette said slowly, "I know that our ancestor, the first Lanette, started Salem Institute." They stopped at the remnants of a bell. It was little more than a rusty shell set in crumbling brick, but it reminded Lanette that Salem had once been a very different institution of learning.

"Aha, now we are getting somewhere!" Grandmother said with fervor. "Go on."

"Tha . . . that's all I know," Lanette said, pained. She was used to knowing things. She placed a hand on the cool metal of the bell, suddenly wishing she knew more of Salem Institute's history, her family's history. Why had she never asked?

"It's time you knew more."

"More," Lanette echoed. There was no question in her voice. She _wanted_ to know more. She _would_ know more.

"Our family's history is great, especially in the witch's line. It is terrible, too." There was something dark in her grandmother's eyes. "It's time you knew all of it. You're of age today." The words held a tone of foreboding that caused Lanette's curiosity to strain at her insides. Suddenly, being of age held a whole new meaning. For some reason, she knew that her whole life was about to change. Her mouth would form no words, so Lanette waited for her grandmother to continue.

"The story begins, scores of years ago, when the 'first Lanette' – as you call her – graced the shores of The New World. Her name," she paused, "was Lanette Ravenclaw."

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A/N: Aha! Now we are getting somewhere. You may not see any connection yet, but it is there. I promise. Lanette, herself, is very glad she has been introduced. She has gotten quite finger-waggy over these past few days.

I do hope you liked her. I certainly enjoyed writing her and her family - not to mention the social aspect of wizarding New England. I sort of see the Salem Institute families as the WASPs of the wizarding world. Old money, old blood, old traditions. Often stuffy and even more often, boring. Coming from a line of WASPy people, it's fun to write about them. smirks  



	4. Chapter 4: Sunrise, Sunset

Disclaimer: I love JK's fishies 'cause they're so delicious! These are mostly my characters, but it is still her world I play in.

_A/N: Thank you to Magical Maeve for her wonderful betaing!_

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**  
Chapter 4  
Sunrise, Sunset**

"Ravenclaw!"

Lanette's eyes shone with ferocity in the fading light. The name had been drilled into her memory from her classes in British Magical History, but it was not one that she had expected to hear in such a context. Her own veins, boiling with Ravenclaw's blood! Her mind couldn't fit around such a thought.

"You recognize the name, Lanette. This is good," said Grandmother quietly. The copper-clad witch was not looking at Lanette, but rather searching the abandoned courtyard's crumbling walls for something.

"Of course I recognize it! Rowena Ravenclaw, she was responsible in part for the ascension of western magic. She helped found _Hogwarts_" — Lanette spoke the ancient school's name with a powerful longing — "and she was supposedly brilliant… invented all sorts of spells, and potions, and theories. She was a marvelous magical theologist. A genius, I hear."

Lanette's voice finally faded into silence when and she waited for her grandmother to tell her more. The elder seemed to find what she was searching for. With a flourish of her wand, a rope of ivy peeled away from the wall to reveal an old archway. A twisting stairwell was visible behind, and it was to these stone steps that Grandmother led her young namesake.

The steps were terribly old and corroded, and Lanette was quite sure they were not safe. She squeaked slightly, the rock crumbling beneath her feet as she made her way up the stairwell. There was no railing, but the walls on either side of her were just as weary with age as the stairs themselves. Dust flew from beneath her fingers as she held onto the walls for support. In front of Lanette, her grandmother continued without stopping.

"Yes," Grandmother said, as they ascended. "Rowena was truly a brilliant woman. If not for her, the western wizarding world may have died out completely long ago." They emerged onto a rooftop. Lanette had never been so high above the school before. She rushed to the edge and looked over the low stone wall. They were in the southern part of the school, and below her was spread the sweeping, ivy-clad grounds of the Institute. The tops of the buildings were bathed in the glow of the swiftly sinking sun, while the rest fell into deep, daunting shadows. It was as if the school was filled with hollow crevices embedded with only the darkest secrets known to wizarding kind.

The sky above them was purple, and the stars blinked into existence even as they watched. To the west lay the ocean, an endless expanse of thrashing waves. Grandmother joined Lanette at the ledge and look toward it, her face creased with the lines of age, accomplishment, and hardship.

"She was brilliant, but she was dangerous too." A heavy cloud swept over the school from the north, dulling the brilliance of the sinking sun. "She had her pride, and a lot of it. Many say she became arrogant, obsessed with the thought of being perfect. The ideas of age and beauty enthralled her. She became obsessed with time itself, and eventually invented a way to warp and manipulate it – a Time-Turner, though I doubt you've ever seen one as they're very rare.

"She never stopped seeking knowledge that would let her discover the secrets to the universe. Rowena had a wild, driving passion, which led her to accomplish many things. But that pride… it was her undoing.

"She took many lovers, it was said; not necessarily for the sake of love, but for the sake of understanding how passion manifests itself. Eventually though, she did find someone who stole her heart. Their affair was said to be a secret, but a burning, glorious one. He shared many of her views, but presented her a great many challenges as well – and she could not ever turn away from a challenge. His name was Salazar Slytherin, a co-founder of Hogwarts, and quite brilliant in his own right.

"Then, with all the suddenness of a flash of lightning, he turned from Hogwarts, and with it, he turned from Rowena. It broke the heart that she had so unwillingly given him. She went nearly mad then, too proud to admit to her broken heart, but also torn between him, and the school she had cultivated with her ideals."

Grandmother went silent, and Lanette grimaced with sympathy for this woman of old. "How awful," she whispered. "What happened then?"

"The remaining three founders," Grandmother continued, "banded together. Though Rowena had been the only one so deeply involved with Salazar, the blow to the school was terrible. Hogwarts was divided already, in many ways, but his leaving and final pronouncement almost led to the school's closing then and there – only years after its founding."

"His final pronouncement?"

"Ah, now we're getting to the root of my tale. Salazar's pronouncement was that one day his heir would rise and finish what he had once began."

"What was that?"

"To purge the world of any wizard with impure blood. Muggleborns."

"But we need them," exclaimed Lanette, "in order to survive as a whole! At least, that's what we've been taught. I mean, I know they're hardly what you can call great wizards. We only have two or three here at Salem, I think. Most go to Cathaven. But they are important to keep around; otherwise wizards will die off completely. There aren't enough of us purebloods anymore."

"Rowena's sentiments exactly. Godric Gryffindor and Helga Hufflepuff believed that Muggleborns had as much potential as any to become great sorcerers" — Lanette scoffed — "and Rowena herself believed that even if they didn't have this potential, their presence in this world was vital if it were to stay alive. Salazar's own views might have seemed more reasonable if he had presented them differently… but it was not so."

"What do you mean?"

"He tortured, killed, or had killed, potential magical students that were born into Muggle families."

"Just," Lanette gasped, "so Hogwarts could remain strictly pureblood? Why didn't Rowena get rid of this dark sorcerer of hers sooner?"

"Love does funny things to people…" Lanette's grandmother looked thoughtful.

"Like my father. Why else would he have married mother?"

Grandmother chuckled softly. "Your mother isn't such a bad sort, Lanette, just much different than you or I."

"I don't feel like I'm connected to them at all – any of them. Hyde and Nat are exhaustingly aristocratic. I love them, they're my brothers after all, but I often wonder how I'm even related to them. You're the only one I feel I can relate to."

"That's because you and I have Ravenclaw blood running in our veins, my dear."

"Tell me," Lanette said after a long moment of staring into the stormy sky before them, "why Rowena's history is so important to us? I mean, except for the sake of knowing our family's past. There's more to it, I know; you've been dropping these ominous hints all night, and I'd rather just hear it."

"Then you shall have it." Grandmother drew a long breath.

"When Salazar disappeared, the three remaining founders were left with a tough choice: do they close the school, or do they find a way to secure the safety of future students and keep Hogwarts open? They hardly wanted to close the school – something they had worked a normal man's lifetime to create – so they worked relentlessly on finding a way to nullify Salazar's prophecy. They soon found that they would not be able to completely prevent Salazar Slytherin's heir from coming to be, but they did have another idea. Instead, they created a complex weaving of magical spells that would activate when Slytherin's heir threatened to commit the evil his predecessor demanded.In the time of the heir's height of power, Godric's own heir would be born, the only one with the power and courage to vanquish the Slytherin evil once and for all."

"I get it! Lord Volemort in Europe!" Lanette gasped. They may have been leagues away from the horrors that Great Britain had experienced in the last century, but America was not ignorant of them. "He's Slytherin's heir! That must mean…" her eyes widened, "…Harry Potter…"

Lanette spoke the boy's name with a quiet reverence. He was a living legend, and the fact that he lived across the Atlantic Ocean just made him even more untouchable. Her fellow sixth-formers swooned after him in all the magazines. It was tiresome. Did they even know all "The Chosen One" had accomplished? Lanette did, she'd read up on him – and not just the articles with pictures of boy wizard battling dragons on a broomstick.

"…is Gryffindor's heir, yes." Grandmother nodded, glad Lanette was catching on.

"Then this means that Harry Potter will succeed! That all that junk overseas will end once and for all!"

Grandmother shook her head sadly.

"There can be no absolutes like that, Lanette, for Godric himself couldn't know if his own heir would be able to truly defeat this Dark wizard, even if he had the ability." Lanette looked crestfallen, but Grandmother held up her finger. "So to ensure his – Harry's – success, Helga and Rowena added their own strengths into the mix. Helga created a mystical map, whose contents were only known to her, Rowena and Godric and presented it to the people she trusted the most in the disguise as a piece of artwork. The map was said to be able to guide the true heir of Gryffindor, and only the true heir, to whatever he needed to defeat Slytherin's heir, including the last weapon – knowledge."

"Knowledge?"

"Knowledge of the truth," Grandmother smiled grimly, "In the form of Ravenclaw's descendent, or heir, if you will."

And as the sun finally set behind the hills in the west, the comprehension dawned in Lanette's blue eyes.

"That's… complicated," was all she could manage.

"Very much so."

"But why must this all be a secret? Why isn't this just common knowledge?"

"Slytherin's heir is no more stupid than Slytherin himself," half-snarled Grandmother. "What do you think he would do if he discovered his ancestor's nemesis' plan?"

Lanette paled. "He'd wipe us out. We'd be of as little use to Harry Potter as a fish in a desert." She chewed on her lip, trying to grasp the enormity of the situation, and not quite getting there. Lanette pulled the cloak tighter around herself. With the fall of the day, the temperature had dropped almost instantly. The heavy clouds above grew more massive by the instant, and seemed to shake their fists at her in fury.

"A storm is brewing," said Grandmother rather obviously.

The two of them watched the clouds swell with moisture, ready to set loose their droplet prisoners at any time. The sun was almost gone now, but the last rays of light turned the stormy sky magnificent shades of orange and plum. The colors reflected in Grandmother's eyes, giving her a fiery, almost frightening appearance. Lanette would never be scared of the older woman, but the story she had just heard was finally doing the trick.

"Grandmother, what does this mean for me?"

"I didn't want for it to be you," her grandmother sighed. "I never wanted it to be you. The knowledge that our line carries is beautiful, and terrible, and dangerous. In short, it's a great burden. I was hoping something would happen before now, a sign that would tell me that my time is here. But today, today you turn seventeen. Today, the knowledge passes to you, and I carry the burden no longer."

Lanette took the elder's hand and gripped it tightly, so that some of her warmth flowed into the older woman. She had a million questions, and every one of them seemed too silly to ask.

"What about father?"

"Your father?" her grandmother asked, confused.

"Did he carry the prophecy while he was alive?"

"Of course not. Rowena's blood only flows true in the female line. To the first daughter." Lanette was taken aback by the abruptness in her grandmother's voice. "She cursed us, Rowena did. Unknowingly of course."

"Cursed?" Lanette asked, shocked.

"The women of our family lead amazing lives, filled with adventure, spirit, passion, learning. It is our blessing, being her descendents. But Rowena, when she was scorned, her heart was so broken that unknowingly she poured that part of her into the spell as well. For hundreds of years, our women have been great, but have never found true happiness."

Three drops of rain sprinkled Lanette's nose. She forgot to flinch, so wrapped was she in this history of hers.

"No, never happy, because Ravenclaw women can never love."

"Never… love?" Lanette echoed, taken aback.

"Oh, they can fall in love," Grandmother said darkly, "but by doing so, they set their loved one into perilous danger. Have you ever wondered, Lanette, why I do not have a husband?"

"Well, yes… but I thought he passed away many years ago."

"'Passed away' – what a pretty term." A barking laugh protruded from her throat, seemingly causing the rain to fall in even more abundance. "I borne two sons of that man, a man I cared for deeply, and then he had a terrible _accident_."

"Two…"

"Oh yes, the first one 'passed away' when he was only a fifth-form at Harold University of the Wizarding Arts. And you know what happened to your father."

Lanette's throat twisted into a knot. "So this is our _legacy_?" she asked her grandmother bitterly. "For any man to enter our lives to be doomed to a terrible death? Well, that's rather harsh."

"So you see, Lanette; our road is not an easy one. With the blood we carry, we also harbour a secret knowledge, and an ugly legacy."

"Aren't we lucky?" Sarcasm bit into the young witch's voice. Her grandmother snorted, her features hardened and contorted – not nearly as lovely and calming as the Grandmother Lanette was used to.

"Luck has everything and nothing to do with it," the older woman said cryptically.

The rain fell freely then, soaking the duo thoroughly before Lanette's wand flew up to raise a protection spell. Grandmother reached out quickly and grasped the hand that gripped the wand.

"No, let it rain. Let nature show us its tricks. We use magic too often to hide and control the only things that are truly beautiful in this world." She turned her face to the heavens and let the rain wash over her silver hair, her wrinkled flesh, her copper cloak. "Let it cleanse and purify. Let it drown, let it heal, let it create new life. Let yourself feel every drop, become part of every molecule. Let the rain be a channel for your emotions."

So the girl in blue shed her shields and did as her grandmother had directed with such conviction. She wasn't exactly sure what Grandmother had meant by 'becoming part of every molecule', but she tried that too. And as the droplets rolled down her smooth cheeks, she let the tears join them. She cried for her father, who was destroyed by their family's curse; she cried for her grandmother, who had been living with this burden for so long; she cried for her ancestor Rowena, who had been driven mad when scorned by her lover; and she cried for herself, for she knew that her whole life was about to change. Lanette turned her face downward and thrust her head into her arms, where her tears quickly turned into heaving sobs.

_It isn't fair! It isn't fair!_ she screamed against the walls of her mind.

"No, it is never fair."

Lanette was stunned out of her distress and looked up, blinking. She turned from the wall and looked around her. It hadn't been Grandmother's voice to mutter those words, and true enough, it seemed as if Grandmother had slipped away back down the stairs during Lanette's hysterics.

"Over here."

Lanette snapped her head around, trying to spot the owner of the voice. The rain was pouring from the sky as if an avalanche, and it was hard to see anything beyond a few feet. A misty figure appeared in Lanette's peripheral vision, and Lanette stepped toward it, apprehensive but curious.

"Hello?" she called out to the figure. But it didn't come any nearer, in fact it disappeared around the entrance to the stairwell. Lanette bustled after it, feeling a slight annoyance bubble in her chest. "Hellooo, who are you?" She rounded the corner and found herself immediately out of the torrents of the rain. And staring directly into her own eyes.

"I am Lanette."

Lanette – the real Lanette – stared wide-eyed at the imposturous face before her in confusion. It had her nose, her eyes, her ringlets. But its chin was rounder and more stubborn, and the facial bones were defined with age. Its skin was pale – almost transparent. No, it _was_ transparent. A ghost! It must be--

"Don't stare, it's impolite," the face said in a voice that reminded Lanette of something in a dream.

"You're the first Lanette! You're Lanette Ravenclaw!"

"Very good, you've been paying attention." Its – her – hand reached out to graze the living Lanette's pale cheeks. At contact, Lanette shivered profusely, feeling as she had just been touched by ice. She stood her ground, though; no spirit was getting the better of Lanette Little.

"I'm a quick learner," she said curtly. The ghost nodded.

"As it should be. Come inside, you'll catch your death out there, and that would hardly do, as you're the last of the Ravenclaw blood."

Lanette suddenly realized she was standing at the threshold of a belfry, though there was no bell in sight. It had been hollowed out to accommodate a range of artifacts that looked as they had been accumulated over the course of a few hundred years. She stepped forward to look closer and gasped as she realized that what she was looking at was a treasure room. She momentarily forgot about the ghost as she swept her eyes over such exquisite things, which included everything from sapphire-crested swords to strange magical instruments made of solid gold. As she examined the room, she ran across a rack on the wall with a series of beautiful wands. Some were cracked or splintered, but otherwise seemed to not have been worn down with age at all. A smoky hand appeared beside Lanette and tried to grasp the very first of the wands, to no avail.

"Our first wands," the ghost said sadly. "Our last ones are always buried with our bodies, as you know, but our first ones… they always come here."

"What was yours?"

"9 inches. Alder wood with three unicorn hairs. Such a pretty wand… my hands got too big for it, though. I needed something a bit snappier once I left school, as well, since the unicorn hairs were rather wishy-washy when it came to powerful spells."

"Unicorn hairs!" Lanette exclaimed. "I've never heard of those being used in wands. How awesome!"

"It wasn't such an unusual core at Hogwarts, though it's said to be rather more expensive—"

"You went to Hogwarts?" said Lanette with awe.

"But of course," the ghost cocked an eyebrow. "That, though, is a story for another day. Look around, little Lanette, and tell me what you see."

"Treasure."

"Yes, and can you guess as to whom it belongs to?"

"You?"

"All of us. It is the Ravenclaw treasure."

"You mean all of this was hers?"

"Oh goodness no! It is the product of each of her descendants' contributions. We _all_ must add something to this room. We all have, since _I_ created it at the time of my death." It struck Lanette that this ghost-Lanette was rather pompous. "It is the reason there is so much of it, and why it means so much to our line – because it shows the great achievements Ravenclaw women have made."

Lanette Little couldn't help staring in wonder, though she remembered with a pang at what her grandmother had told her. "What about the men? What do they accomplish?"

"Men?" the ghost scoffed. "All they're good for is planting us with babies. They can never appreciate us for what we truly are; they can never know who we truly are."

Lanette was struck with a thought. "Is that why you came to America and changed your name? To protect us from the Dark wizards who would destroy us?"

"Yes, but that too is a story for another day. There is one particular artifact here that I must find… ah, here it is." The ghost beckoned to Lanette. As the girl came closer, she knew immediately what it was that the ghost wanted her to see.

Lanette Ravenclaw pointed a smoky finger toward a glistening item lying alone on a wrought iron stand in the centre of the room. Lanette Little looked closer and saw it was a brooch, with a centrally set magnificent opal – a black one, with blue lights that shimmered just underneath the surface. It was inlayed in a complex design of diamonds and twisting gold tendrils. It was a beautiful thing to look at, and Lanette could feel the power radiating from the opal. She reached out to touch it but snapped her hand away, afraid to touch something so exquisite.

"No, take it, it's yours," said the ghost.

"It was hers, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"I couldn't! I'd lose it, or step on it… or…"

"You'd never. It wouldn't let you. Besides, you have to take it." She took it. "It's her only way of reaching across the ages for you."

Startled by this pronouncement, Lanette let go of the beautiful brooch and she watched terrified as it fell to the floor. The cringe-inducing crash never came. Instead, the brooch hung in the air as if connected to a string tied to Lanette's first finger. With wonder in her eyes, Lanette flicked her finger and the brooch flew to her hand.

"Keep it always, young Lanette. And remember that it is not just a pretty thing, but a tool. Now come," the ghostly woman said as she flew to a set of cushions on the side of the room furthest from the door, "we have much to talk about."


	5. Chapter 5: Eyes of a Griffin

_Disclaimer: Fish gotta swim, and birds gotta fly -- I'm flying with my own plot, but the fish are all JKR's._

A/N: Thank you to Aequitas for her _beautiful_ beta-ing and to Fantasium for her help on the ahem "Northern Delicacies".

* * *

**Chapter 5:  
Eyes of a Griffin**

And many thousands of miles away, the very object of Lanette's extensive research was surrounded by a different form of brilliance. Harry Potter was encased in a circular room with a domed roof of midnight blue. The walls were paneled in silver and marble encrusted with gems of extraordinary value. They created interweaving designs that gave the impression of raging winds and crashing waves. The dancing light that reflected off their smooth surfaces came from windows in the cupola, which were cut in the shapes of stars and crescent moons.

In the center of the chamber, a dais rose from the mosaic tiling of the floor. Upon it was a table, and at its head a golden throne. It was the occupant of this throne that had Harry so enthralled. For she was more magnificent than any human he had ever seen—if mortal she was at all. Lustrous hair, the color of caramel, tumbled around her bronzed shoulders in waves. Her eyes were very round and were, if possible, an even brighter gold than her throne, with pupils that were strangely dilated—eyes that might have suited an eagle.

_Eyes of a griffin,_ he thought, remembering the keyhole.

They were set under a pair of straight, dark brows that extended upwards on both sides of her face, like wings. Both her cheeks and lips were round and alight with a natural glow that softened the straight line that was her nose. The gown that hugged her torso was of the same cream color that Harry's guide's had been, but of a fine velvety material. Clasped over the hollow of her throat was the most curious wardrobe item of all. It was a cape, but unlike any cape the young wizard had ever seen; it seemed to be made entirely of golden feathers. The ensemble only added to her already ethereal appearance, and Harry could no easier look away than leave.

"You seek our help..." The voice that had first struck him as musical, now hit him like an entire symphony. She set two bronze hands into her lap and stared at him through those bird-like eyes.

"That's right."

"And if you found it, what would you do with it?"

Of course Harry knew what he'd do with it, but when the question hit, he felt entirely unprepared to answer. Finally, he drew a breath.

"I would save the world." It was a brave statement, almost foolhardy, but it felt right. She straightened in her throne at this statement.

"Then you do not wish something for yourself? Knowledge of your romantic future, perhaps? Knowledge…of your past? Your parents?" she said, watching him with a calculating gaze.

_She's testing me,_ he realised. _She knows my weaknesses and she's testing me._

"I may wish it," he replied after a long moment, "but it is not what I ask. I only ask for what can help me defeat the Dark Lord, Voldemort. This isn't for me; it's for the entire future of wizarding kind."

She said nothing, only watched him.

"I know you can help me—us," Harry said, keeping his back straight, despite his kneeling position. "Your Council... it's supposed to hold secrets and knowledge that isn't supposed to even exist. You're the only ones that can help me."

"We're also dangerous enemies when we want to be," she challenged.

"I'm willing to take that risk."

For the second time that day, Harry felt himself being scrutinised from head to toe. He held his head high, and was sure that his voice had been clear, but he felt as if those giant eyes of hers could see into the very depths of his soul. _Perhaps they can,_ he realised, shaken at the thought. He noted though, that he had felt nothing invade his mind as Snape—_traitor,_ his mind growled—had at Harry's Occlumency lessons in his fifth year. At last, the griffin-eyed lady seemed content with her findings.

"Rise, boy."

He obliged, and as he did, he noticed for the first time that several other women were seated around the table. The ladies possessed skin of every color, hair that shimmered in every hue, features that held every variation of beauty. None, though, held the radiance that their leader shed in abandon. It was their voices, though, that awed him the most. They played their vocal cords like harp strings, even as they merely murmured among themselves. He suspected that they were deciding what to do with him, but he was too wrapped up in the concert of their voices to care. He stood for what seemed like seconds but which was truly minutes while they made a decision.

"We know of what you seek, and your words have urged me to give further thought to your predicament. I do, however, wish to consult with the rest of the Harpyiae Council more on this issue." Her voice was unreadable. "I'll have Idel show you to your rooms. She will be your guide for as long as you remain here. We will send for you when we have decided your"—he found his eyes encompassed in hers' again—"fate."

The air hung heavily between them for a moment as the finality of the word swept over him. She blinked, and he was released, feeling slightly faint.

"Of course," he said, bowing his head slightly.

He found himself being swept out of the Meeting Hall, and into a set of corridors much different than the ones he had been led through before. They were lit with pale blue lanterns that never flickered, and Harry was reminded of the fluorescent lights of Muggle grocery stores. The floor was at a slant, and though not steep, was definitely carrying them downward. Suddenly, he and his guide emerged into a vast chamber, and Harry immediately threw up his arm to shield his eyes.

"_Athera_," his guide – Idel – shouted. At once the dazzling light dulled around him and Harry could see. Before them was a spiraling pathway that lay suspended in midair and led forever upwards. When Harry glanced up, he saw a great blazing sphere— what seemed to be a miniature sun. The pathway seemed to lead to this, though Harry had no idea, even in the dulled light, how any creature could get close enough to the sphere to enter it without being blinded.

"The spell will wear off shortly, come," his guide said. She began to ascend the pathway and Harry followed her. True to her word, the spell did begin to wear off, and Harry's head began to ache with the brightness around him. He did notice though, that though the pathway fell away on both sides, there seemed to be doors hovering in the air beside them. When Harry thought he could bear the light no longer, she opened one of these doors and guided him through.

He blinked, and found himself in a normal-looking set of rooms. He immediately noted that there were again, no windows, and found himself wishing to see anything outside the confines of this mystical fortress.

"Your rooms. I'll have a meal sent to you shortly. I suppose also that you wish to wash. A bath has been drawn for you."

"How long before they send for me?" he asked her, not hiding the harshness in his voice.

"Hours, days maybe," she said noncommittally. "Your rooms are outfitted with any needs you will require. If you find yourself wanting, however, send for me and I'll do my best to accommodate you." Harry sighed, realizing that he was in no position to argue.

"Thanks."

She disappeared then, and Harry took a moment to examine the quarters he had been given. They seemed so comfortably normal and out-of-place in this foreign world he had been shoved into. There was a sitting room and a bedroom, both outfitted in a handsome blue and creamy white. He also found a bathroom, and in it, a tub with steaming water. It was such a happy sight after his long journey that he immediately shirked off his damp and grimy robes and stepped into it, gasping at the water's heat. As he lay back, he let the warmth seep into his skin, and cleared his head of all the chaos that had been swirling around inside its walls. For many minutes he just lay there enjoying the first semblance of comfort in days. He then found a terrycloth hanging on a silver stand near the tub and soaked it thoroughly. Slowly he worked the cloth over his body, ridding his pores of the sweat and grime that had accumulated there. He found soaps and shampoos and washed his hair. Eventually, he felt clean enough to step out of the tub and don a white bathrobe that had been placed on the rack. He was very pleased to find that in front of an ornate mirror, someone had thoughtfully placed a sharp blade for shaving.

"Don't stand around, use it!" the mirror told him. "All that patchy hair on your face makes you look like a turnip."

"What is it with mirrors and their comments," Harry grumbled. "And how do I look like a turnip?"

The mirror remained silent, and Harry grudgingly looking into it, raising the blade to his skin. The moment he met his own eyes in the mirror, he paused, stunned. He couldn't remember the last time he had gazed at his own reflection, but he realised that time was less of an issue, and rather his experiences in the past few months that had changed him. For changed he was.

He would never be tall, but he no longer had the disproportioned, awkward look of his childhood. His limbs and muscles were hard with training, though they would never ripple nor bulge as some of his fellow trainees' did. His face itself had lost all of its boyish roundness and vulnerability. The skin was pulled taught across his bones which gave his features a defined, sharp appearance. His eyes had taken on a terrible hollowed look, with the same gaunt look of the "Wanted: Sirius Black" posters that had surfaced a few years ago shadowing his features. The stubble over his lip and around his jaw was indeed patchy, and the hair on his head had grown even more wild and unruly – though at least it was now clean. He looked… intimidating, rough, fierce. Harry Potter, the boy, was gone. In his place was a man, hardly recognisable as the child who had graced so many front-page stories in the past seven years. Harry turned his head from side to side and looked at himself out of the corner of his eye.

_I like how I look,_ he decided. _Dangerous. Like someone that could actually defeat a Dark Lord._

Harry was almost sorry to see his stubble disappear as he slid the blade across his cheek. Maybe when it was even enough all the way around, he could grow a beard…. _Like Dumbledore_, he thought with a humorless grin. Then the grin fell away almost immediately, and he drew a sharp breath. The thought of his recently departed Headmaster had come on without warning. His chest tightened, and at the same time, the blade slipped in his fingers, cutting a long gash on his cheek. Harry let the breath out in a low hiss as the blood began to swell. He grabbed the wand from his tattered robes on the floor and pointed it at the cut with an "Amendo." The cut healed in an instant, but there was blood all over the bathroom, the grimy travel clothes on the tiles, and the white bathrobe he was wearing.

"Scourgify," he muttered over and over again, trying to get at least the worst of it up. When things were clean enough, he attempted to finish his shaving job in a hurry, earning more small nicks in the process. Eventually he finished and disposed of the blade, cursing himself for not knowing the magical way to go about this annoying task.

"Pain in the arse, that's what it is," he grumbled to no one.

"Yes, but you look the better for it," replied the mirror.

Harry glared at it in response and then turned to his sorry robes lying upon the floor. There was no hope for them―they would have to be disposed of―but before thrusting them into a waste bin that had suddenly appeared, he drew a small leather sack from one of the pockets.

Carrying the sack, Harry emerged into the bedroom. It was furnished with a chest of drawers, several cushioned chairs, and a three-legged dressing table. Most of the room was taken up by a four-poster which must have been twice the size of his bed at 4 Privet Drive. It was here that Harry placed the recovered object. He drew his wand and nudged the leather with its tip.

"_Engorgio_," he rasped. The little bag at once enlarged itself into a rucksack, and Harry drew from it a fresh set of old robes that had been rolled into a ball. As he unrolled them, an object fell to the floor with a loud clang. Harry bent to pick it up, making sure to handle it carefully. After all, it was an incredibly valuable object, amoung other things. Looking down at it warily, Harry decided the best course of action was to wrap it in his Invisibility Cloak and shove it under his pillow; there was no point in it being discovered by anyone yet.

He donned the robes that had hid the object. They were worn, old, and at least an inch too short, but at least they were clean and not covered in shaving-induced blood. He wished they had been a little nicer, for all that he was in such a grand place, but the war had prohibited him from acquiring new robes, especially on such short notice as this trip had been.

The contents of Harry's rucksack having been stored in the dresser, the young wizard made his way back into the sitting room. He was surprised to find a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. As he relaxed into the heavily-cushioned couch before the fire, he was immediately drawn into his memories of his days at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, when he would so often sit in front of a fire like this, conversing with his two best friends―Ron and Hermione. They would be worrying. He wished he could let them know that he was all right: clean, dry, and safe for the moment at least, if not particularly sure of what was to come. He knew, though, that it would not be in his best interests to ask a favor of that sort to the people who housed him. Despite the seemingly friendly atmosphere of his chambers, he knew it was really only a pretty way to keep him imprisoned while they determined his future.

After a while, Harry became restless and started to pace. He wanted to do something, see Falcor maybe. The rooms were well enough as rooms went, but there was nothing to placate his mind—nothing to stop him from thinking of his friends, of his recent losses, of his dark future, nothing to keep him from pondering what the Council's next moves would be. Hermione would have told him that pondering their moves should be the first thing _on_ his mind, but she wasn't there, and he wasn't about to listen to non-existent voices when he didn't have to.

_Oh, Hermione_, he thought, realising that he truly did wish she was here. Ron, too. He remembered that originally, they were going to have done all of this together. The war, though, had had different plans for the three young warriors. The training camp at the old Hogwarts Castle needed Hermione's intellect and Ron's strategist skills, and in turn, the duo needed all the training they could subject themselves to. The two of them could not be spared for this mission, not when the situation at home was so dire.

"Besides, they couldn't have accompanied me here anyway," he said out loud as he sat before the hearth. He watched as the gold flames wove throughout the ruby ones, crackling and spluttering. No, this mission was for Harry Potter alone.

A young girl—a _lärling_, she told him—then arrived, with a platter of hot food. Harry accepted it gratefully, and the girl nodded, thin-lipped and staring at him wide-eyed. He shifted uncomfortably, registering that she was actually fearful of him. He was about to dismiss her when he had a thought. He relayed it to the child and then excused himself. She bowed to him, palms against her thighs, eyes to the floor, and scurried from the room.

Shaking his head, he returned to his place before the fire and examined the dinner that he had been given. There was a big square sheet of flat bread, sprinkled with bits of boiled potatoes and onions. Beside them was a glass of milk. It looked rather unappetising, but he was terribly hungry, so he ate all that was there. Beside the milk, there was a can of something, though the language on the label was unfamiliar.

"Sor…strum..ing," he read, sure he was pronouncing it wrong. He shrugged, and pulled open the lid of the can. At once he was overcome with a terribly putrid smell—as if all the Dursley's neighbor's compost heap had been shoved into his chambers. "Gahhhh!" he yelled, shoving the can of the awful-smelling red meat away from him. "What _is_ that!"

"A northern delicacy," said a familiar voice from the doorway. Harry looked up to see Idel had returned. "Surströmming. A special type of herring."

"Delicacy!" he half-shouted. "It smells like rotten cabbage! I thought you all were going to discuss my future, not kill me as soon as I got here!"

The lady raised an eyebrow, and with a swish of her wand, the smell dispersed, though the can remained.

"We were under the impression that you were up for anything. I apologise for wasting such a gift on you."

Harry growled, picked up the can and a utensil off the table, and shoved the fish into his mouth. His eyes bulged and his stomach rebelled at the rotten taste, but he forced it down. He was going to prove himself in whatever way he could—even if it meant suffering this kind of torture. After he managed to swallow a few bites, he grabbed the glass of milk and gulped it down with a single swallow. When he set the glass down, he looked back at Idel, with a fiery determination in his eyes. He could have almost sworn she looked impressed.

"You called for me?" she merely said.

"Yes," he nodded, wishing the awful taste would leave his mouth. "I just wanted to know if it would be possible to see my Thestral. A witch at the gates told me he would be taken care of."

"I don't believe that would be a problem," she told him, "but you will need to change into different robes." She looked down her nose at him, and he frowned back at her.

"These are all I have."

"I will have something brought to you, then." She turned from him and raised her wand. The silvery unicorn he had seen before extracted itself from her wand and stampeded off. He stared in wonder, realizing that indeed, it was a Patronus.

"Do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question?" he ventured.

"Ask."

"Er, well… I was just wondering how it is possible you have a unicorn for a Patronus. I could have sworn that mystical beasts cannot be committed to a wizard's—or witch's—Patronus. I mean, at least, that's what…" he trailed off, suddenly feeling very stupid.

"Well, we Council members aren't exactly normal witches, are we?" she said, staring at him significantly. He refrained from pursuing the topic more, if only because he feared what would happen if he upset her.

An uncomfortable few minutes passed by without another word. Harry paced the sitting room, and Idel stood primly just outside his door, as if on guard. At last her unicorn returned to her, carrying a package in its teeth.

"She apologises for the wait. Our stores do not include many items fit for a man."

"That's fine," he mumbled, accepting the package. He stood there for a moment, unsure exactly of what to do. Idel remained where she was, so he went to the tubroom and closed the door.

The package contained a set of midnight-blue satin robes that reminded him of the domed ceiling in the Council's meeting chamber. He discarded his worn robes and slipped on the blue ones, suddenly feeling very fine. Harry emerged from the bathroom, his shoulders set and his chin held high.

"Let's go," he said firmly.

* * *

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed this new installment! We're finally back to Harry and getting a few answers... and of course, more questions. What is in store for Harry when he visits his Falcor? Find out next time onnnn Spirits of the Storm. 

And thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews! It's so nice to have faithful readers. Every time you review, my heart flutters. Cookies for all my reviewers!


	6. Chapter 6: The Menagerie

Disclaimer: JKR's toys. My sandbox.   
A/N: Thank you to Aequitas, as always, for being a truly wonderful Beta, critic, and advisor.

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**Chapter Six:  
The Menagerie**

It was dark, musty, damp. These were the first sensations that overtook Harry as he stepped through another door in the sky. The next was that the air around him _smelled_. Not the putrid, rotting smell of the sürstromming, nor the clear, metallic fragrance of the women of the fortress. No, there was something natural about this smell: earthy, _whole_. He breathed in deeply, letting the heavy hair work its way around his lungs.

As he exhaled, a figure brushed past his shoulder and journeyed onward: Idel. He rushed forward to catch up with her quick footsteps.

"What's in this place?" he asked her as his stride drew level with hers. All he could see was the path in their direct vicinity, as if the air had been lighted by a simple "_Lumos_".

"Let your eyes adjust to the darkness and you will find them feasting upon the most wondrous plants known to magical kind." Harry had only managed to catch a shadowed glimpse of exotic greenery before she spoke once more. "Where we are about to go, no being but the Council has looked upon in hundreds of years. We consider it a rather sacred place, as it is home to some of the only remaining creatures of their kind. Beware their power, as they have much more of it than you would care to believe. Ah, here we go – the Menagerie."

They passed through an invisible barrier. . . and into the grey light of late-afternoon. Harry looked up, startled.

"It's not truly the sky above, but bewitched to look like it," Idel told him.

"At Hogwarts, our Great Hall is like that."

She raised a questioning brow at him. "Where do you think one of your precious founders got the idea?"

"I apologise for being so ignorant; I was merely stating a fact," he snapped back. As soon as it left his mouth, he regretted it. He didn't want to lose her as a guide, but her condescending attitude was beginning to play on his nerves. After all he'd done and been through, he hated the constant reminders that he was inferior to these people.

"You'd do well to learn tact, young wizard, not to mention as much as you can about the Council and their element." Idel paused, letting her words seep into him. "If you want to survive, that is."

"What do you know about survival?" Harry growled.

"Far more than you, _boy_," she said smoothly, emphasizing the last word. "But I'll elaborate that on another occasion. We are here for a purpose, and it is not to bicker pointlessly about subjects where I am much more informed.

"Look about."

The dark shadow over Harry's face soon dispersed as his gaze met his surroundings. The closest thing Harry could relate this to was the Muggle zoo he had visited with the Dursleys on Dudley's eleventh birthday. But of course, it was about as different from a zoo as a racing broomstick was from Aunt Petunia's mop.

There was an intense magical energy pulsing, writhing, and reaching out to him. It called to Harry, beckoning him to take a closer look at its source. He obliged, forgetting about Idel and his trangsgression completely.

The room itself was a vast circular cavern, lined from floor to the sky-like ceiling with magnificent cages. The animals inside these cages were unlike any he had ever seen in the Muggle world, and if he had seen them at all, they had been captured onto the pages of his Care of Magical Creatures textbook. Many were animals he thought only existed in myth, others seemed to come straight from a child's wildest dreams. There were elephants with four trunks, giant zebras with horizontal stripes, blue coloured monkeys, two-headed giraffes, an orange-scaled elk, a three-eyed bear, and countless other beings that Harry couldn't make out.

A spiraling ramp wound its way around the walls letting any visitor who dared catch a closer look at the magical creatures who were penned there. Out in the middle of the cavern, where there was naught but air, there were singular cages floating around in space, sometimes narrowly missing each other, but never colliding.

While the cages along the walls were ornamented with ancient runes, the singular ones were simply extravagant. They were cube-like, with glass walls on all sides that rippled as if covered in oil. They were melded together with ropes of precious metals. Because of the strange way the light reflected off the glass, Harry could not tell what incredible creatures inhabited them, though he suspected they were animals even Hagrid only dreamed of.

And amongst these floating capsules, other creatures flew by the hundreds. Magnificent birds, much bigger than any Muggle creature soared in circles, weaving themselves between the cages. With wonder, Harry recognized a griffin residing on top of one of the capsules, watching him with stern eyes. Harry had never realised how truly enormous yet beautiful griffins were until that moment. They seemed to be made of pure light, with the golden fur of a lion interweaving with the copper feathers of an eagle.

What truly caught Harry's attentions, though, were the flying-horses. They were easily the most numerous of the flying beasts, but also the most incredible to watch. They gleamed with colors that were too bright and too beautiful to be mortal, clearly distinguishing them from the dumb Muggle beasts that they resembled. They flew with a loping grace, beating their feathered wings that seemed to span for a mile. They were bigger than normal horses too, though not nearly as large as the ones that had pulled the Beauxbatons carriage to Hogwarts. He did recognise several Palomino Abraxans soaring in their midst, though. Later he would learn that the most magical of the lot were the chestnuts called Aethonans, the dapple greys called Granians, as well as the Abraxans. For now though, he was just content to look at their glory as a whole.

Before them, on the ground below the cages, was an expansive rolling lawn dotted here and there with patches of flowers. There were flying-horses here as well, with their magnificent feathered wings folded at their sides as they grazed. They turned their attention to Harry as he stepped into their domain, and he felt a thrill wriggle its way up his spine. He felt himself wanting to fly with them, to graze with them, to leave his burden of mortal coil behind and join them in their purity. He stepped forward, hand outstretched, extending more than just friendship to these awestriking creatures. The nearer he came to them, the more interested the creatures became. The flyers grounded themselves, the restless ones stilled, and soon the only sounds between them were the rustles of feathers and the swishes of their tales.

When the distance between the boy and the winged creatures was at last breached, Harry made his way across their ranks, stroking a flank here, combing a mane with his fingers there. He gazed at each one in the eye, forging an unspoken contract. As he did this though, he came to the realisation that these creatures were completely intelligent – not the categorical, logical intelligence of a human or centaur, but a wild one, filled with ancient magic.

Hagrid had never done a lesson on the magical flying-horse―_he must have thought them too tame and boring,_ Harry thought with a grin―but the boy seemed to know instinctively how to treat them: he bowed. There was nothing else to do in front of such a wondrous lot. And then, in a wave of silky glory, they bowed back. They sank their knobby front legs, letting their wings rest stiffly at their sides and lowering long muzzles to their magnificent chests. At that moment, he truly understood why this place was sacred to the Council.

"You have commanded their respect," said Idel. He realised she was standing just a few steps in back of him. "So soon, too." Harry felt a burst of pride, even a bit of smugness.

"There are so many. . . ."

"There was a day when they were abundant upon the earth, when wizards played Polo instead of Quiddtich. But men became reckless with them, and their numbers quickly diminished. They are not toys, and never were. I'm sure you've noticed by now that they carry a magnificent intelligence with them." Harry nodded. "We use them only when we ride upon the winds. At all other times, they reside here, our most prized possessions of all."

He wasn't sure what this meant, but before he could ask, he became completely distracted by a new arrival.

"Falcor!" The Thestral's aura of darkness seemed to swallow the immediate brilliance that surrounded it, as if Falcor himself was a black hole. As he strode forward, through the midst of the other flying-horses, they took many steps backwards, as if preferring to make a path for him rather than lose their wondrous color.

It was amazing to think that his steed was related to these other creatures, for while they were beautiful and resilient, Falcor seemed to carry a dark austerity that was both terrifying and strangely compelling. For some reason, Harry knew that he would prefer dragonesque Falcor to any of the feathered stallions on any occasion. While the others were beautiful, they seemed to represent a part of Harry that had long ego been erased by pain and loss.

"Mount him," Idel said. She was already seated upon a beautiful gray mare that must have had Unicorn blood, for in the center of her forehead, a silver horn glistened dangerously. Harry frowned, but climbed onto the back of Falcor without a word. If anything, it was a small comfort to be so near a friend again.

At once, both Idel and Harry were in the air, and he finally was able to see some of the strange creatures that inhabited the floating cages. The most interesting creature was what looked like an overgrown pig, with enormous horns that spiraled in great curlicues.

"Crumple-Horned Snorkack," Idel informed him. "They're only found in these parts; very rare, they are."

He stared, dumbfounded for a moment.

"Follow me!" Idel yelled, and then dived. The yell pulled Harry out of his daze and he bounded after her. At first he thought they would slam directly into the grassy knolls beneath them, but then he realised that hidden beyond a small hill was a large dark tunnel. Once inside, they continued in the same downwards fashion, flying side by side, until she said, "We're now under the fortress. These tunnels spread themselves all the way through these mountains, our way out if the need ever arises."

"How many are there?"

"Hundreds. It takes many years to learn your way through them. Otherwise, one may become hopelessly lost."

"That seems to be the case with the fortress in general."

"Well, yes, that was the general idea. The Council does not like to be confronted by unwanted visitors." She shot him a look, which he ignored.

"I only know a bit about the Council," he said.

"It's a surprise you know anything at all. As far as I knew, the knowledge that we exist is only spread among a few. We'd rather not participate in the sordid affairs of the Wizarding world."

"But if you carry all the secrets and knowledge that you're said to, why do you not use it? Or at least give it to others to be used?"

"But to which side would we give it to? This is assuming we choose this option."

"You mean to say you would help the Dark side?"

"Harry Potter, you misunderstand our Council. We do not support any side but our own—nonpartisan, if you will. If we must take part, we will only contribute to the side that will benefit us in the end. We live by our own means. We have existed since the dawn of Wizardry, and we will survive long after your kind destroys itself with your silly fights over 'Light' and 'Dark.'"

Harry bristled, backhanded by this unexpected assault to his cause.

"Then you'd like to see the world fall into darkness?"

"It may, for a while. But neither Dark nor Light can reign supremely forever."

"But it's _wrong_," Harry protested.

"Only in the eyes of the Light. Do you think they see their own views as wrong?"

"If they have any bloody sense."

"You've never thought that maybe they think the same way about your people?"

"But. . ." he spluttered, "it's not the same!"

"Of course it is, you're just too naïve to see it." There she was, attacking him again with her words. He really didn't want to hear any more of her patronising at the moment. With his knees, he urged Falcor forward into the darkness of the ahead tunnel—hard. The horse sprang forward. As they sped up, the tunnels began to blur as they twisted through them, and he was feeling the pull of recklessness. They dashed ahead, the darkness overcoming both of them, yet he still pushed onwards, enjoying the feeling of being free. Eventually, Harry slowed his steed, and they landed on a ledge on the side of the tunnel. Harry looked around, glad to see Idel was not anywhere in sight. He dismounted, and rubbed his horse's sweaty flanks. The creature turned his skeletal head towards Harry, flashing the boy with a milky stare.

"Alright boy, we can turn back now."

But as they made their way back through the maze of the underground tunnels, he shortly realised that he had no idea of their direction or how to get to the surface. Idel's words rang in his mind: 'one may become hopelessly lost.'

"No! I am not, _we're_ not, lost!" He looked around desperately at the tunnel walls, trying to recall any sort of landmark. But every wall looked like every other; they were all lined in dark, rippling black stones that reminded him of the scales of a dragon. How appropriate.

He thought of using the four-point spell, but as he hadn't any idea of what direction they had come in the first place, it wouldn't be much help. He felt disoriented, confused, and furious that Idel had been right. Moreover, he didn't even want to think about what would happen if the Council called him and he wasn't there to heed their request.

Falcor did not seem to be in much better shape. His hyper-sensitive sense of direction had somehow been thrown terribly off. The Thestral was thrashing from side to side, and emitting terrible hissing noises from between his lips. His blank eyes searched the dark tunnels desperately, as if hoping his poor sight would help him where his other senses would not.

To make matters even worse, at that moment a hideous groan emerged from somewhere far below them. At once, the walls started to shake terribly, the black stones loosening from the sides and tumbling to the bottom of the tunnel. A great gust of wind then rip-roared from behind them, heaving the duo forward into the unknown. Black stones were falling in earnest now, sometimes coming down in sections, shattering as if glass when they collided with something. Sometimes, they hurled themselves at Falcor, cutting his sides, and damaging the membranes of his bat-like wings. Harry did his best to cast protective spells, but the terrible ripping winds upset his concentration and displaced his spells. Furiously, he and Falcor dodged the falling stones, hoping that whichever direction they were heading was the one that led away from the tunnels.

And then something collided with his head, and he knew no more.

  
_Her dull red curls tumble around her as she tries to sit up, but the enchanted manacles have other ideas. They throw her back on the cold, dirty floor with an icy hiss. So cold it burns. She hisses too, her misty breath forming a halo around her shivering, naked body._

She resigns to collapsing again on the floor, dismayed, beaten. She yearns for someone to come rescue her, but knows they won't. She doesn't matter enough anymore.

There he is, he comes to her grimy prison, carrying gifts. A dead rat. Stale water. She doesn't expect anything more. Not now.

His flaxen, luxurious hair taunts her. It reminds her of better days, when things were bright and the future was too. But his soul is not bright. No, his soul is as dark and as cold as the prison that holds her.

He grins at her, perfect teeth flashing behind a thin-lipped smile. She can't bear him. Not after what he's done to her.

She tries to brings her arms up around herself, to protect her body from those liquid eyes. The manacles laugh at her. She lies there, open, for all to see. It doesn't matter. They've seen it all before anyway.

She squeezes her eyes shut. They are all she can control. When she opens them, he is gone.

But there is another presence. She looks around, wildly searching for its owner. Her brown eyes then suddenly fall out of focus. Her head falls back. Her hair splays around her.

She mutters one word before consciousness leaves her weeping body.

"Harry."

"Harry."

_Ginny!_

"Harry, wake up."

"Ginny."

"Harry!"

Slowly, a face came into focus above him. Brown eyes; but not _her_ brown eyes. Idel. Everything flooded back to him, and he scrambled to a sitting position.

"I had this dream . . . or vision . . . or. . . ." He squinted, trying to understand what it was he had seen.

"These tunnels do strange things to the mind."

"Then what I saw, it wasn't real?"

"Oh, it was very real. You mentioned someone named Ginny?"

"Yes, she was . . . but no, that couldn't be. I know she's safe. She's been a coma since . . . but she's safe. Ginny's at Hogwarts with Hermione and Ron."

"It wasn't Hogwarts that you saw?" Harry shuddered, seeing the scenario vividly before his eyes.

"That was not Hogwarts."

Idel looked at him, with what almost seemed like pity. He did not like being pittied.

"What happened back there, with the wind?"

"Ah that. . . that was the Storm." She said "Storm" as if it were its own entity. "It's the third time this month it's acted up."

"What—?"

"No time, boy, we must get back up to the surface."

"They have—?"

"Yes, they've called you for an audience."

Harry groaned, wishing he could have at least gone to his room for a bit, but it looked like luck wasn't exactly on his side. Slowly he stood up, and grasped Falcor's mane. He was painfully aware of Idel watching him, but silently thanked her for not reprimanding him. He was doing enough of that himself.

"Alright then, lead the way."

* * *

A/N: I hope this chapter answered a few questions, though I know (as always) it only brings up more. I promise I'll be better, truly. Ah but, as if there aren't enough little plotlines going already, the next chapter will be exploring what is going on back in Britain. Then we shall move back to see what is up with Lanette Little.  



	7. Chapter 7: Devil's Arithmetic

_A/N: Thank you, as always, to Aequitas for Betaing :)_

_Warning: This chapter is somewhat graphic in nature, and is the first reason why this story is rated as it is. It is crucial, however, to show the kind of War these wizards are facing... _

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**Chapter 7:  
Devil's Arithmetic**

"Wands out, wizards," instructed a gruff voice.

Robes swished as wands were produced, but all else was silent. Slowly, the owner of the voice rounded on his team. There were about twenty of them—witches and wizards of all sizes and ages, with hair varying from the brightest of reds to the steeliest of grays. Identical in all of them though, were the lines of sadness and horror etched into each of their faces. For before them lay a landscape ravaged with devastation and destruction.

"Young'uns, keep up with your mentors. Remember all, this mission is strictly reconnaissance. You are to try to ascertain what happened here and look for survivors. There is to be no funny business beyond thatno sneaking off on rescue missions, etcetera. Get what we came here for, report to me, and get out."

"Alastor, what if there i _are_ /i survivors?" The question came from a weary-looking man in his middling years with muddy brown hair and bottomless eyes.

"There won't be," Alastor Moody said, his voice grim. He turned his haggard face from his team, looking at the haunting site that lay before them. It was, or had been, a small town. It now lay in shambles; grey piles of charred wood, brick and debris lay strewn across the cobbled main street. Skeletons of streetlamps loomed above it, casting dark, ghostly shadows. The crumbling shells of the remaining buildings creaked in the fierce wind, and shattered glass littered the ground. There was blood, too; fresh, red, and gleaming in the pale green glow of the Dark Mark above them.

"But where are the bodies?" a man asked as the group made their way through the devastation. "Every sign of great struggle, but no bodies. . . ."

"Split up," Moody told them. "Report back here. You know who to go with."

A young red-haired man with a long nose followed the wizard who had asked about the survivors into the nearest set of wreckage.

"It's bloody awful," he whispered breathlessly as they stumbled through a hole blown into the wall.

"It's war, Ron."

"But this was just a regular town, with far more Muggles than wizards. They were defenseless!" the young man called Ron exclaimed. His mentor laughed soullessly.

"And now you see first-hand the terrors of Voldemort's regime. Look at this." The older man knelt before what seemed to Ron a baby doll. When Ron knelt as well, though, he found himself staring into a human child's face, wrinkled and ghastly with lifelessness. It was a dead infant. Ron stared in horror at the sight, wanting to leave, to throw up, but unable to look away. The infant's blank eyes stared back at him.

"That's sick, that is."

The brown-haired man grasped Ron's shoulders and guided him away from the atrocity, and towards a narrow stairway that led to nothingness. Ron sat on the third step, numbly. The other man stood nearby, surveying the damage around them. He cast a Levicorpus spell on the child that sent it out through the hole and into the fresh air of the night.

"The wrinkles that covered its body—the Robracious Curse," he said softly as the corpse disappeared.

"Professor Lupin, we have to stop them . . . just a baby . . . helpless . . . ."

"We're doing the best we can, Ron. And you need to stop calling me professor. I'm your mentor now, not your professor. Remus will do just fine."

"Yes, Professor Lupin."

"Ron," Lupin said, shaking him, "you see here only a small fraction of the horrors that the Death Eaters have committed tonight—and in its entirety. If you want to stay on with us, you have to keep a level head. You need to be able to think clearly. I know this"he waved his arms around—"is terrible, but in order to prevent it from happening again, we need to do what we were sent to do."

"Right, sorry . . . Remus."

"Better." He looked around. "Now, you've been taught the Adverto spell, correct? Good. Use it to see through the wreckage. Look for anything that might clue us in to more of what happened here tonight."

They worked silently for long minutes, except for the occasional " i _Adverto/i _", but neither found anything that would tell them more. Eventually, they moved on to the next house, which produced very little new information. They worked in this fashion, sometimes seeing others of their team, looking just as forlorn and hollow-eyed. Ron emerged from each dismal ruin more disheartened than from the last.

"Remus!" came the call of another team member at some point. "We've found a survivor!"

It was a girl, Ron saw, grubby and wan from her stringy blonde hair to the tattered clothes that barely covered her skinny legs.

"I was a playin' hide-and-seek with me three brothers, see. Under them stairs." She pointed at a half-disintegrated stoop. "An' then, I heard all this noise, right, bangin' and yellin' and screamin'. So I yell out, 'Tommy what er ya doin' out there?' cause he was hidin' in the garbage bin, see, 'cept he didn' answer. Then I peak out, an' I see all these awful scary people with these ugly mask things. They got Tommy, and little Junior, too, and they is hold'n them and not lettin' em go. And then..." She shopped, and a shudder ran over her scrawny length. "And then this other man came an' he..."

She didn't seem to be able to go on. Ron's father knelt next to her and put a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Take your time." She gulped and nodded.

Finally, she took a rasping breath and continued: "He was all off, like. He walked all hunched over, with this crazy hair and really ugly long fingernails. He went right up to my kin, and put those ugly nails on them faces and said, 'Such pretty children. Will make a nice addition to our collection.' I dunno what collection he talk about, but he said it all sneery, and the masked things let out these awful laughs. It was almost dark then and I was mighty scared, but I kept on watchin'.

"More Masks came then, with all the kids in the neighborhood. The Masks made this weird cage thing o' light – dunno how they did it – and put all the kids inside. Then they brought Johnny, my oldest brother, and I almost screamed out loud right then – 'cept Junior did it first. Then they... oh they... they pointed their stick things at Junior and everythin' went so quiet. 'Cept he kept on screamin', with his mouth anyway. His eyes got all wide, and he opening his mouth so far that you could stick a log inside it. But he was yellin' and yellin' and made no sound. It scared the knickers off me.

"Then the worst o' it all came. It got all dark, like, and the moon came out, and then tha' ugly bloke with the fingernails got all hunched over and started makin' all this racket. An' then he straighten up, and he's all gone. Well no, he wasn' gone, just all hairy and well, look like a character right outa a monster movie. Then the Masks stopped makin' the light for the cage, and all the kids started a runnin'. But the monster followed all of them, caught 'em all. It looked like he was really enjoyin' the chase."

Everyone was silent. No one could think of any words to sooth over such a terrible event, and Ron thought it wouldn't have been right to anyway. He stared at the child, feeling pride and pity for here all at once. He knew for a fact that he could have never watched his friends suffer like that, and still be around to relay the tale.

"What did this monster do when he caught the children?" someone asked the girl.

"He bit them. Blood was a gushin' everywhere. He didn' kill 'em though, just bit 'em enough to knock them silly. The Masks then did somethin' to make 'em float in the air... and then they left..."

"How many children did they take?"

"'A hundred er so."

"Well," said Lupin in a solemn voice, "Now we know what Greyback is up to."


	8. Chapter 8: Unfamiliar

_Thank you to TheVanishingAct for Betaing this particular chapter :) He did a wonderful job!_

_Warning: This chapter, though somewhat lighter than the previous, still deals with serious issues. _

**

* * *

Chapter 8:  
Unfamiliar**

Hermione Granger rubbed her eyes ferociously as the Latin script blurred in front of her. Brushing her unruly mass of brunette hair aside, she tried again, but the words just wouldn't sort themselves into understandable text. Hermione snapped the dusty tome shut, realizing there was no sense in trying to concentrate. She checked the strange gold pocket watch that she had been keeping in her breast pocket. It was eleven. It was eleven, and they hadn't returned. _It's useless to fret,_ Hermione scolded to herself. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she was busy making a mental calculation of when they had left, when they said they would return, and what time it was now.

They were over an hour late.

The fire in the hearth was blazing, but the tower was cold. And empty. With Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry closed, the entire castle seemed to echo these sentiments. It wasn't really, of course; ever since August, Hogwarts had become the central headquarters for the fight against Voldemort. It was constantly bustling with the witches and wizards commonly known as the Phoenix Front, and the House living quarters had been transformed into barracks for everyone from Order of the Phoenix, to Aurors and Ministry officials, and to a plentiful number of younger recruits that Hermione had once called her schoolmates.

However, Hogwarts was no longer the warm haven of Hermione's schooldays; it was all business now, transformed from a wondrous magical academy into a fortress preparing its troops for war.

At first, many had rebelled against the idea of using Hogwarts as the Phoenix Front's headquarters. After all, it was an obvious location, and a location that Voldemort's forces knew as well, if not better than the members of the Front did. The argument died down though as wizards realized that Hogwarts would also be the easiest to defend. Not only were its protective spells hardened with a millennium's worth of years, but the location itself was almost ideal to defend physically. On two sides, it was bordered by cliffs and a sprawling lake, and to the north it was guarded by the town of Hogsmead, which was backed by tremendous mountains. Only the east presented a slight problem, with its wild Forbidden Forest cloaking the hills as far as the eye can see. The Front had placed many spies in these woods, but there was still no telling what evils lay in its depths.

Through just a bit of research into _Hogwarts: A History's_ companion, _Hogwarts: Defying History_, Hermione had discovered that Hogwarts Castle had originally been a small fortress for a Scottish fief during the Alpin Dynasty. It had been built there for the same reason they were using it now—it was easy to defend. At the time, she had read, the Forest had been much farther away, separated from the fief by great rolling moors. By the time the Godric Gryffindor came upon the ruins of the old castle, the woods had choked most of these plains. None of the Founders could discover why the castle had been abandoned in the first place, but it seemed to fit all of their purposes quite well. When they first began to rebuild the castle to suit their own needs, all of them agreed that they would have to keep their eyes on the Forest, for they were all of the single mind that the trees would not be friendly to their ideals.

So, like the Founders, the Front had taken over Hogsmede and its presiding castle, with the idea that they could keep an constant eye on the Forest. Hermione had watched alongside Harry and Ron as witches and wizards Apparated to Hogsmede for days on end. Though the Front welcomed as many recruits as they could get, the new arrivals always went through a series of rather intrusive tests down in the village before they could proceed to Hogwarts.

It had at first put the three friends at unease having such a strange assortment of people roaming their school's halls. They weren't alone. With so many different types of wizards and witches around, spouting their own views and putting down others', tension was a common factor in conversation. Disputes and arguments broke out so frequently that officials were often forced to break up duels.

Everyone, though, was united under the intention to prepare for war, and prepare they did. Physical training and weapons training filled mornings, while defensive and offensive strategy filled evenings. In between, there were hours of lessons in the types of magic that would aid them in battle. The spells were harsh and crude, and they all were forced to practice extensively in many different scenarios. Ron and Harry did exceptionally well, of course, thriving on the raw challenges presented to them. Hermion, though, was of a different mind; she couldn't help but miss the days of lugging schoolbooks around and learning intricate and subtle new magics.

As Harry and Ron had progressed excellently, Hermione had found herself slipping more and more into her own routine. Instead of attending battlemagic sessions and weapons training, Hermione had taken it upon herself to receive private tutoring from McGonogall and Slughorn. Though she despised the latter, she knew she could contribute far more to the cause by brewing complex potions than learning how to slap the ground and roll when falling. Secretly, Hermione also wanted to sit her N.E.W.T.S come spring, but she had told no one other than McGonagall of these intentions. Harry and Ron, especially, would think Hermione insane to consider her studies at a time like this.

The tight relationship that the three had shared over the past seven years had suffered under the hand of the Front. Their training was taking them all separate ways, though they had always tried to meet late every evening to exchange news. At first, the three of them had also gone off a lot together, attacking the problem of the remaining Horcruxes with a wild fervor. Soon though, the search had become more difficult then even Harry had even expected; every lead was a wild goose chase, and each chase was shorter than the last.

And then, in a flurry of horrendous attacks and an official decree, the War began in earnest, and their struggling relationship became more strained than ever. When they weren't training or assisting in some way, they were attending war councils and watching familiar faces return, haunted, from the battlefield. Details were often sent out to combat Voldemort's forces or to just clean up their terrible messes. The tales that had come back through the mouths of Lupin and the older Weasleys about these experiences were enough to make the even the more experienced warriors' hairs stand on end.

Hermione, herself, never went to the battlefronts, but she saw quite enough of the carnage in the Hospital Wing, where she often assisted Madame Pomfrey and Hestia Jones wherever she could—bandaging, administering potions, calming the delusional and cursed. It was a tough job, and both mentally and physically exhausting. Quickly, she gained a whole new respect for the Hogwarts nurse, and for the plump and friendly Hestia, who had once been a Healer at St. Mungo's and was very wiling to teach Hermione all she knew.

With the onslaught of War, perhaps the most devastating thing of all was that any romantic possibilities between she and Ron Weasley were shut up and locked away for a day far in the future. Their duties and training had quickly stripped the pair of all time and energy for any "extracurriculars". Ron, especially, was severely dedicated to his tutelage, spending far more of his days preparing for battle than trying to rebuild a life that once was.

A glimmer of hope had surfaced when he had presented Hermione with a birthday gift in September. It was a battered but beautiful gold pocket watch, the kind that told you far more than the time if you knew what to ask it. With a faint blush, Ron had told her that it had been his grandfather's. Hermione could not have thanked him more genuinely.

In the two weeks following her birthday, they had managed to find some time between their hectic schedules to spend with each other. It wasn't much, but she treasured each moment with him more than she ever had before. On a particularly cold Thursday evening, two weeks before Halloween, Ron had approached her in the Gryffindor Tower, with a piece of parchment in his grasp. As Hermione stared into the gloom of this particular night, she remembered that one with far more vivid detail than what she could see at the present.

With a sweeping motion, Hermione rose to her feet and gathered the basin that she had stored behind a rather pompous-looking bust of Godric Gryffindor. It was neither elaborate nor large, but it would serve for her purposes. She drew her wand, and in a slow, melodic voice, she spoke the ancient words that would place the strange runes around the bowl's edges. When she was finished, Hermione stared at it for a moment, both surprised and at the same time not, that she had accomplished what she had. Mimicking what the Headmistress had shown her several times, Hermione placed her wand at her temple, and drew from it the memory that gleamed on the surface of her mind.

_"Hermione?" questioned Ron nervously from behind her. Hermione had been working on developing a particularly complex variant on the truth potion, and she had just reached a very crucial step._

"Yes, Ron?" she said impatiently, lifting her gaze from her calculations.

"I er, well—here." He thrust at her the parchment, whose broken seal gleamed with the purple stamp of the Ministry. Her gaze softened as she took it from him—under that red flush was an expression of great pride. 

**Co: Mr. Ronald Billius Weasley;**

It is with great pleasure that The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, after much deliberation, has decided to offer you acceptance into WAND, the Wizard Academy for National Defense. Based on your impressive performance in basic training, you are a prime candidate for our program that trains witches and wizards such as yourself for careers as Aurors.

Because of our compromised position, all training will continue at Hogwarts Castle. If you choose to join the program, we will contact you with more information and you will be assigned to your mentor...__

Hermione stopped reading at that point to hand it back to him. She had seen several of such letters delivered to the likes of Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and Angelina Johnson over the course of the morning. They all said the same thing—that a chosen few were to become Junior Aurors, that they should be proud, that they were the future of the Front. It was highly dangerous, and both physically and mentally draining. They would also be tested on the battlefield with the Death Eaters. The only "future" Hermione imagined for them was at the merciless hands of Voldemort's army.

"Congratulations, Ron."

"You don't sound very excited for me." His voice brimmed with hurt. Hermione sighed.

"I'm sorry. I am excited, really. It's just--" she motioned to her papers "--I have so much to do here."

"Are you jealous that you didn't get one?" he growled. Hermione's cheeks turned pink.

"Of course not! I hardly think that entering myself into a program that promotes certain death is worth being envious over." For a moment Ron looked furious, but he waited several seconds to speak, as if he were counting down from ten.

"We're all going to die some time, Hermione," he said quietly. "I might as well do it taking a Death Eater or two down with me." When she didn't say anything right away, he kept going. "I don't see why you can't just be happy for me!"

"Happy to see you die? Ron, how could you think such a thing?" she felt her eyes fill with tears.

"This is such an honor, why can't you see that? We're going to make a real difference! We might even win this bloody war."

"You're just so desperate to prove yourself, Ron! You can't just..." Hermione's voice faded. She couldn't bring herself to say, You can't just see what's right in front of you, you can't see that I want you here with me.__

"I can't just, what?"

"You can't just be Harry, Ron." It was too late to turn back, now. "You can't just change yourself into him by making yourself into some sort of war hero. It doesn't work like that!"

The young man's face paled under his freckles. "Go away," he snapped. Hermione cringed.

"You approached me."

"And now I'm telling you to go away."

With a huff that disguised her pain, she gathered her work, stood, and disappeared through the Fat Lady, leaving Ron alone with his words.

Plop.

Hermione drew away from the basin, immediately feeling the burden of the memory dissipate. She knew it was there, but she couldn't quite get to it. The pain remained though. Perhaps that was because it had spanned several weeks. It had been nearly a month since that dreadful conversation, and in that whole time, Ron and Hermione had traded hardly any words, save for what was needed in the threesome's nightly conventions. Harry soon became the only one to speak candidly at all, relating his findings in his research to them. He too had been admitted into the WAND program, but unlike Ron, he had declined the invitation. Instead, he preferred to work by himself, going off for long hours in the fashion of his old mentor. It was evident that he missed Dumbledore desperately, and continued to live by the late Headmaster's words, never ceasing his search for Voldemort's soul fragments.

Sometimes, Harry spent many of his waking hours studying Dumbledore's notebooks, forever searching for information beyond what had been relayed to him. Hermione and Ron tried their best to offer their help to his research, but the broken bond between them created a forced and hollow dynamic within the group. Their meetings began to amount to less and less, and their few useful discussions often erupted into arguments. One night, during one-such heated exchange, Harry became so flustered with them that he stood up suddenly and pounded his pale fist onto the table.

_"If you two haven't realized, there is a real war going on here. I don't have time for one of your petty arguments. I love you both dearly, but until you two get over your damned issues, I will not be attending these nightly unpleasentries. I have a world to save, if you haven't forgotten."_

Both Ron and Hermione's faces turned red, but they could still not meet each other's eyes. Harry sighed.

"Well, that's it then."

Plop.

In the days that had followed, Hermione immersed herself more than ever into her other world. Professor McGonogall insisted that she had never been better in her spell work, to which Hermione replied with only a grim smile. She assisted Professor Slughorn with brewing, and finally finished her first draft of the new Veriteserum. While it wasn't perfect, it was something, and she was proud. When Hermione couldn't help with potions or study with the Headmistress, she was back in the infirmary.

_"Must you always be useful?" demanded Madame Pomfrey once, when Hermione came to her asking for something to do._

"Yes," said Hermione simply, without adding that being useful distracted her from being lonely.

Plop.

But at night, just before she slipped into the dream world, there was nothing to guard against her loneliness. Every bone throbbed with the longing for companionship. But she had no companion except for her aching heart and her silent tears. Perhaps if she just allowed herself to tell him... but no, that wouldn't do. It certainly wouldn't do. Not when so much was at stake.

Even in the waking hours, Hermione's world began to disintegrate. An attack on Hogsmede not a week before had left many injured, Lee Jordan without his sanity, Ginny Weasley in an irreversible coma, and Hestia Jones stripped of her life. The catastrophic nature of the event brought Harry and Hermione together again. Not two days before this had found the two old friends alone in the clock tower, their hot breath fogging the November-cold windowpanes.

Plop.

_"It may not amount to anything, but it's the best lead I've got."_

"What kind of lead?" she asked timidly, glad he was speaking to her of his intentions, but not wanting to scare him away again.

"Well, not a lead exactly, but rather an ancient order of witches that have cut themselves off from the world. They're called the Harpyiae Council. Have you heard of them?" Hermione furrowed her bow, trying to recollect the name from her vast readings. At last, she gave up.

"I don't believe I have, though they sound intriguing. Who are they?"

"I don't even know myself. All that's written is: 'Fare the Harpyiae Council in Scandinavia, where the Arctic Circle binds the Storm below the frozen ground. Their voluminous knowledge is bound to their earth, but will aid the most desperate, if the need is dire, and the seeker is willing to face the challenges imposed onto him. Beware one must be of the divine face, for underneath lies...' And then it cuts off. I believe that Dumbledore must have begun to translate it from this." He produced an ancient book and hand handed it to Hermione. She turned it over with tentative hands, fingering the old leather. The cover was engraved with the image of a sword crossed with a claw. "He gives the page number—" Harry pointed "—but I just can't make heads or tails of it."

"I can try to translate it, but Harry..." Hermione studied his face fearfully, "how do you know they can help you?"

"I don't, but I have to try. Dumbledore seemed to think it was a fair idea, otherwise he wouldn't have included it in his theories on where to find the Horcruxes." Hermione looked doubtful. "Look Hermione, we're running out of time. Voldemort's forces are getting stronger, and our side is getting more and more desperate. We just don't have the resources or the backing we need to win this."

"But we have all—"

"It's not enough, Hermione. We don't have an army. Not like they do. And the Death Eaters and their followers have been preparing for this war for years. They've been gathering forces ever since he returned. Not just wizards, either; all the scum of the magical world are under his control. Hundreds upon thousands of them. And let me tell you, these are creatures who have been waiting for something like this for a long time. They're hungry, they're desperate, they're evil, and they're ready.

"And what have we got? Maybe a few hundred righteous-minded men and women, magical creature clans that I can count on one hand, and two-score of children_ who have no bloody idea about what they're up against." Harry drew a long breath, his eyes smoldering in the twilight. He wasn't finished, and Hermione knew him well enough to know to remain silent._

"And they're sending the Junior Aurors out on the next detail."

"Ron!" Hermione gasped, and then her face darkened. "He didn't tell me." She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then felt Harry's callused fingers wrap around hers.

"He didn't want to let you know how scared he is..." Hermione opened her eyes to find him staring at her with a curious look.

"Oh, I wish he would talk to me! I didn't mean what I said that day, I really didn't. And now..."

"It's just detail, Hermione, and they'll be with their Mentors," Harry said kindly, though the fire was not gone from his eyes. "But it won't be forever. We're going to be slaughtered, Hermione. And with Ron out on the front-lines, I can't keep putting off what I have to do. I'm the only one that can end this nightmare, and the Death Eaters aren't going to wait around until I'm ready and they're old and knobbly. Which is why I leave tonight."

"Oh, Harry! But tonight is so... tonight! And I really should interpret that entire passage before you go, there could be something really important in there!"

"I don't have time, Hermione. I don't know how long it will take to even get there."

"And Scandinavia! That could take absolutely days by broomstick," she said, "and you couldn't possibly take a Portkey or Apparate, as you have no idea where you're going!"

"I'll take a Thestral, then. And if you find anything I really need to know, you can send it after me with Hedwig," Harry said after a moment. His friend looked crestfallen. "Hermione, I've got to do this! I'm not going to let any more of us become victims, just because I can't do what I have to. Not like Ginny..."

For a long, breathless moment, they stared at one another. They understood each other completely, but at the same time realized that they knew nothing at all. Though their friendship had been through the mill these past few months, there was a certain connection between them that had never seemed stronger or more fluid. Hermione grasped Harry's forearm, as if shoving her strength into him, combining her power with his. Brown eyes swam in green, the colors and identities forging into one. And then as sudden as it had come, the sensation was gone, and they were separate again.

"I believe in you, Harry."

When Harry had disappeared into the sky that evening upon the back of a dragon-winged horse, Hermione had realized that she had no trouble seeing a Thestral now.

Plop.

"Mizz Granger?" said a squeaky voice, shaking Hermione from her concentration. She spun around to find a House Elf tugging on the hems of her robes. Hermione bent down, so she could be eye-level with the strange creature.

"Hello Dobby."

"I iz sorry to disturb you mizz, but you asked Dobby to let you know when Wheezy and the others returned." Hermione straightened at once, delighted, but at the same time terribly apprehensive. What had taken so long?

"Thank you Dobby, I'll be sure to knit something extra for you this Christmas!" The creatures tennis-ball eyes lit up in glee.

"Oh no, Mizz Granger. You iz too kind to Dobby!"

"Oh Dobby, it is you who are too kind to me!"

Within only moments, Hermione had climbed through the Portrait hole and scurried down the corridors to the main stairwell. She had just begun to descend the grand marble staircase when she was apprehended by the terrible urgentness of the voices below. She darted back behind a pillar at the top of the stair, wanting to hear, but at the same time feeling guilty for eavesdropping.

"We've got to inform the entire Front immediately of our discovery," said the voice she knew to be Remus Lupin, Ron's Mentor and an old friend.

"It would terrify them, Remus. We'd lose the moral we've worked so hard to build!" That was Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"They _must_ know! It should not even be up for discussion." Moody's gravelly voice told the others in a harsh whisper.

"Lads, shouldn't we find somewhere more private to discuss this?" The new voice was higher and held the air of great age—Aberforth Dumbledore. "You never know who could be listening in."

The voices seemed to have disappeared. Hermione stepped from her hiding place and into the glow from the lanterns lighting the stairwell. She wasn't alone however, for it appeared that during the time she had been eavesdropping, Ron had been transcending the grand stair. Their eyes met, and held, both pairs smoldering in the lamplight.

"Ron!" In her eagerness to ensure his well-being, she forgot that he was still furious with her. Instead of snarling, or blatantly ignoring Hermione though, he merely stood there, staring at her. Hermione then noticed the pallid tone to his skin, the dark circles under his foggy eyes, the way his fiery hair hung limply around his ears. After a moment, she reached for him. He flinched, but did not pull away when she rested her slim fingers upon his shoulder. The loud voices in the Entrance Hall died away as the world became just about them.

"Hermione," he said after a long moment, his usually strong voice shaking tremendously.

"Ron, what happened?"

"It was awful, Hermione. It was..." But whatever he was about to say faded into nothingness as realization overcame his features. "Hermione, I'm so sorry. I should never have--"

"No, Ron," she wailed, "I should never have!" She threw both her arms about his neck, pressing her body to his, trying to make him feel what she felt. Slowly, his own arms snaked about her back, embracing every fiber of her being. Everything the two of them had experienced over the past month flowed out of them; not in words, but in the passion of their embrace, in the way Ron stroked her frizzy curls, in the way she ran her fingers along his hardened shoulder-blades. In the way the static crackled as their foreheads touched, and in the way that he met her tears when he kissed her eyelids.

And when their lips touched, it was as if they had never been apart.


End file.
